Because I’ve left just one Ben Folds studio album uncovered, I’m adding a bonus day in order to cover all the bases.
Folds’ third solo offering, 2008’s Way to Normal, was a big step down for the man responsible for the albums I’ve covered over the past five days. While I found myself frustrated that I could pick only one song from each of the others CDs, in this case it was a struggle to pick one I like enough to feature.
Folds’ second solo album, Songs for Silverman, contained his most mature and sublime work yet… almost on par with the first two Ben Folds Five albums.
I remember reading a lot of “fan” criticism that the album lacked the gutter humor and anarchic style of some of Folds’ earlier work and his live shows. As if the gorgeous ‘Jesusland‘ or achingly sweet ‘Gracie’ were somehow lacking. Give me a break! I love that Folds is able to excel in multiple styles.
Ben Folds’ first solo album, Rockin’ the Suburbs, could easily have been another Ben Folds Five album — more smart piano/bass/drums pop. It was also a step up from Reinhold Messner because Folds focused more on writing good songs than delivering an oddball concept album.
Still, in a way Rockin’ the Suburbs is a concept album in its own right. Almost all of its songs are character sketches, short stories told in three minutes’ time. And Folds proved to be an expert at these mini-narratives.
Ben Folds Five’s third (and final) album, The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner didn’t live up to the promise of their first two. Studio gimmickry too often stands in for strong songwriting, especially in the album’s second half.
The first half, however, features several fine songs, including the lilting Bacharach-esque ‘Don’t Change your Plans,’ the crowd-pleasing ‘Army,’ and ‘Magic,’ a somber ballad about the loss of a grandparent.
Here’s a movie so feathery light I almost don’t want to bother reviewing it. It’s cut from the same cloth as a thousand romantic comedies before it — chick lit made celluloid (literally, as the film is based on a popular book series).
But it is successful enough at its intended purpose, to give you a few smiles and laughs for 90 minutes between dinner and the car ride home (or in our case, the car ride to a fancy hotel in Coral Gables).
It certainly lacks the emotional heft of The Devil Wears Prada and the smart wit of Bridget Jones’ Diary, to name two of the most successful entries in this genre. But it does have one thing going for it, and that’s Isla Fisher.
Meet Me In Montauk 